


there’s a chill, it’s showing through your clothing

by Astrarian



Series: Writer's Month, August 2020 [25]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Smutty, Writer's Month 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrarian/pseuds/Astrarian
Summary: You can’t take him upstairs. Can’t have him in that room, knowing that you’ll cry out your flaws to the walls in the heat of the moment and that they’ll transmit them rather than contain them.(Writer's month 2020 - Day 25: drop)
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Smoker on the Balcony
Series: Writer's Month, August 2020 [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861909
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	there’s a chill, it’s showing through your clothing

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Phantom Planet's 'Dropped'.

There’s a moment when you look away from his mouth, away from your hands fumbling without direction at the tight waistband of his blue slacks, at the yard around you both. There are pale shades on the snow, created by the lights inside the Whirling-in-Rags shining out and splashing across the ground. Flecks of snow drift in the breeze, apparently unconcerned with gravity, and those lights draw your eyes up away from the ground, and upwards further, to the empty balcony where you shared that cigarette with Kim on Monday night. Monday night? Monday night.

His cold fingers tighten in the hair at the back of your neck, knuckles pressing hard against the knobbly bone at the top of your spine. It zips down your back and spreads into your thighs and sings down into your feet, making your toes curl. He pulls you back into another kiss, mouth hot on yours, a respite from the cold that stings the rest of you both. You lick inside his mouth, lick up the sweet taste of his smokes—Tioumoutiri? Not what you ever expect—and he moans, and that sings through you too, stirring you towards hardness already.

“Not here,” you mutter, glancing about again quickly, so quickly that it’s impossible to tell if you’re really alone.

“Mmph, you’re staying here, I hear,” he says, voice hushed. “Upstairs?” 

“No,” you hiss, pushing your hand inside his open shirt, seeking any warmth from his bare chest in the cold. What a look for winter in Revachol. His nipple rubs against the centre of your hand, solid like a pebble, and he grunts when you flick your thumb over it unkindly.

You can’t take him upstairs. Can’t have him in that room, knowing that you’ll cry out your flaws to the walls in the heat of the moment and that they’ll transmit them rather than contain them. You can’t, not with only a wall between yourself and Kim.

The pale vee of his chest inside his shirt is a beacon that you manage to both push and pull at, hurrying towards the commercial building west of the Whirling-in-Rags. You’re whirling for sure, in rags of your own, whirling through the unlit door into the mouth of darkness at the top of the stairs and pinning him against the wall. It’s not quite so cold in the porch, and it’ll be private enough. Private enough for the inevitable noise.

You get the button on his trousers undone and shove your hand half inside. He’s not wearing underwear and you grip around the base of him, startled by how short his wiry pubic hair is. 

He’s warm and hard and soft all at the same time, and it feels good. It feels good when he groans too, kisses turning open-mouthed and breathy against you. It makes you think of warm silk up against all that sensitive skin between your legs and you jerk your hips forward against his, pushing for contact.

But he grunts, “Cold,” and his own hand wraps coldly around your wrist and holds you still. A few seconds spin away between you, seconds filled with such erratic breathing and weighted stares that the temporary lull is hard to comprehend.

You press closer to him, sharing the heat you’re generating while you lick his bottom lip, teasing it to fullness with your teeth. You can feel his nipples against your chest through your clothes. Still cold. There’s a solution for that, a solution that fills your mouth. 

You drop down until your mouth is level with his exposed belly button. You lave his abdomen with your tongue, licking away the chill until you uncover the taste of sweat and skin and arousal that just _feels good_.

He hisses through gritted teeth, gripping tight tight tight to the back of your head as you take him in. It’s easy and natural to work him up with your intrepid mouth and hands; it’s good to stop thinking and just follow your instincts to push him higher and higher as your own blood pounds between your legs. You reach down, wanting to alleviate a bit of the pressure—but then it’s happening. His body curls in on itself above you, jolts repeatedly in your grip, as a loud moan escapes him.

You slither back up his body to find his kiss, although your joints rebel. You’re too old to be on your knees for very long. 

“C’mon,” you say into his mouth. And you feel so much better when his hand scrabbles over your groin, untucking you with movements so practised that the inevitable vision of him doing this to other men has your nerves crackling.

His laugh scorches the shell of your ear and singes your nerves with all the right rhythms. “Mmm,” he hums, pulling you closer.

“Come on,” you whine, a flush creeping up your neck, the cold banished to another place out of touch. Your heart hammers, the drumbeat of a song you’re both determined to get to the climax of.

He twists and strokes and then just tugs ever-so-lightly, before changing rhythm to something new but equally good. A slave to the touch, you jerk in his grasp. It burns, it sears through you, and it’s good, it’s hot, hot, hot—

You know you cry out when it happens, your head falling forward against his shoulder as the pleasure boils up and spills out of you in scalding waves.

You relax and push back shakily, heart rate slowing, breathing coming more easily. He smells like sweat and sex. It’s good.

He laughs, pushing you a little further back with hands on your shoulders. He squeezes for a moment, then lets go of you so he can sort himself out.

Ah, there it is—without his touch, the pleasure drops away so fast that you’d be dizzy if it wasn’t the most familiar feeling in the world. A hollowness settles in your groin and spreads into every single crack and crevice of you like oil, filling you up with more slick darkness than you can ever expel through a quick rut in a dark corner.

Blinking, licking your lips, you dumbly follow his lead. You tuck yourself back in and shuck your pants back up around your hips, before wiping away the obvious mess with the cuff of your jacket. Already cold.

He hums again, sounding pleased. When he presses a cool kiss against your cheek and follows it up with a wet, warm lick, it stings.

“See you around,” he whispers, his smirk carving a dark shadow on his face.

He slips away from you, out into the night. Another mistake, another high that doesn’t last. It never lasts, that’s why you always want more, why you always need another hit.

You watch the flecks of snow whirling slowly under the streetlights, as the door drifts shut.


End file.
